


Footprints On the Ceiling

by sister_wolf



Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: Exhibitionism, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-01-30
Updated: 2005-01-30
Packaged: 2017-10-12 07:02:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/122177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sister_wolf/pseuds/sister_wolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She needs to fuck-- or to kill someone, but she already <em>had</em> her chance to do that tonight and didn't take it-- and she knows <em>exactly</em> who she wants right now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Footprints On the Ceiling

**Author's Note:**

> Major spoilers for Outsiders through issue 19.

Fuck this noise, anyway. She can't go back to headquarters right now-- can't stand the thought of them knowing about her, talking about her _trauma_ and thinking that it means they have to _care_ , that they have to _connect_ with her, _help_ her. And she _definitely_ can't handle Roy right now. No way in hell. Not after the _last_ time, after the way he fucked her like he was trying to prove something-- as if she wasn't even _there_ \-- and _definitely_ not tonight, not after his daughter--

She needs to fuck-- or to kill someone, but she already _had_ her chance to do that tonight and didn't take it-- and she knows _exactly_ who she wants right now. Blond punk boy guitarist she's fucked off and on for a while. Thin as a whippet, always looks half-starved, but he's stronger and faster than any baseline human should be. Smokes like a chimney and drinks like a career alcoholic, and if he's a member of the spandex and capes crew, she'll _eat_ her goddamned Outsiders tee-shirt.

Climbs the fire escape and through the open window into his apartment. He's sitting in his living room on a ratty old sofa, facing the open window, slumped down with his feet up on a battered coffee table. Guitar in his hands, not playing it, just holding it like it's an extension of his own hands. The way that Roy holds his bow-- no. Not going there.

"Grace," he says, completely unstartled, as if seven-foot-tall vigilantes with bad attitudes make a habit of climbing through his window at three in the morning. And fuck, for all she knows, he's screwing half the superheroes in New York. Mmmm, that's a nice image, Nightwing fucking him hard and slow while Arsenal feeds him his cock-- and jesus _fuck_ , Roy can get out of her goddamned head _right_ fucking now.

She shakes it off, poses with her hand on her hip, head tilted flirtatiously. "Hey there. Wanna fuck?"

He grins, slowly, and she can tell by the hooded look of his eyes-- and the half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels on the floor-- that he's already pretty fucking drunk. Hopefully not too drunk to get it up, though he usually doesn't get whiskey dick (thank god for fucking metahuman resilience). "Fuck yeah," he breathes, leaning his guitar up against the side of the sofa and slouching down further.

She straddles him, knees sinking into the sofa cushions, hands gripping the sofa back. He licks his bottom lip and runs his hands from her waist to just below her breasts, thumbs brushing against the undersides. "Grace. What do you want?"

"What do you _think_?" she half-laughs, half-growls down at him. He grins up at her and slides her tank top up, freeing her breasts. Rough, hard fingertips on her nipples, flicking against her nipple rings and then twisting them a little, just hard enough. She sucks in a breath, biting her lip. He leans forward and traces his tongue around the edge of her right nipple, leaving a cooling circle in his wake. His left hand closes on her side, his fingers tracing patterns that feel like he's chording on her skin, playing music on her.

Grace tips her head back, hands flexing on rough upholstery, as he bites down, not gently-- growls a little and tugs on her nipple ring with his teeth. "Oh yeah," she groans. This is _exactly_ what she needs. And she knows that her team-mates wouldn't understand-- they'd pity her, probably, or think that they understand her, why she is this way-- but it's not _about_ that. This isn't _about_ Tanner, not really. This is about _her_. Her pleasure, her power, her control. Her choice.

He unzips her pants and slips them down her hips, rubbing the back of his hand against her panties, pushing in a little with his knuckles. She's wet as hell already, soaking through the thin material. Grace shifts slightly, until his knuckle is pressing in exactly the right spot, and rocks a little, feeling the tension starting to draw tight in her lower belly. Wriggles impatiently as he slides two fingers past the edge of her panties and _in_ , thumb finding her clit unerringly. Crooks his fingers, pressing _hard_ with his thumb, and Grace throws back her head and moans, hips shifting into a rhythm as instinctive as fighting, dancing, fucking-- her three favorite things in the _world_ , and it's building, building in the pit of her stomach, until the line of tension _snaps_ and Grace is coming, spasming around him, biting the back of her own hand so that she doesn't scream the fucking _building_ down.

He leans back and rests his head against the sofa cushion, smiling up at her lazily. "Like that?" he murmurs, flexing his fingers, and Grace moans at the aftershock pulsing through her.

"Yeah," she breathes, feeling the snarl on her own face. Roy always says she looks like she's trying to decide whether to kill him or fuck him-- no. This time isn't for _thinking_. Not about that.

"Get naked," she says, standing up and stripping off her tank top. She's already unlaced one combat boot before he starts moving, looking startled. So maybe that was a little abrupt of her but-- fuck, this is screwing, not a fucking _romance_ , and she knows what she wants, which is both of them naked. Now.

Grace shoves her pants off and leaves them in a heap with her panties on the floor. He's bent over, shoving his pants down, and she can see the lines of scars on his back. Car accident, maybe, but there's at least one that looks like a knife scar. She'd start to wonder if he _was_ a vigilante, but-- she's _been_ out drinking with him, and she can honestly say that she'd be surprised if he _hadn't_ ended up in a knife fight at some point. He doesn't have the most stable temper in the universe, and his friends are even worse.

All of which is beside the point, which is to get fucked well enough that her brain will just _shut_ _up_. Grace lies down on the sofa, hands laced under her head, one foot resting on the floor, and has the satisfaction of seeing him swallow convulsively when he looks up and sees her. "Jesus _fucking_ christ, you're hot," he growls, kneeling on the sofa between her spread knees.

Grace winks and hooks her leg around the back of his. "Fuck me," she suggests, raising an eyebrow. There's a breeze coming through the open window, and it raises goosebumps on her skin everywhere he's not touching her. He strokes his hands up and down her thighs, leaning down to bite at the top of her thigh and then lick a trail down the inside of her thigh, pausing to spread her with his thumbs and then diving in, eating her out with an enthusiasm and thoroughness that reminds her of-- no, dammit, doesn't remind her of _anyone_ , and his hair is blond and spiky, not short and red, and she runs her fingers through it to remind her of exactly who he _isn't_.

He goes down on her until she's shaking and moaning again, on the verge of coming, and then he slides up her body and into her in one smooth, hard stroke. Grace yells, hand latching onto the side of the sofa so that she doesn't grab onto him too hard and break him like an egg, her legs wrapping around his waist and the back of his thighs. His hands are under her shoulders, gripping onto her with what would be bruising force, for a normal human, and he's fucking her so hard that the sofa is creaking, and it's fucking _perfect_ , absolutely _perfect_.

She turns her head, panting, feeling the breeze on her face, opening her eyes and staring out the window, and for a moment she's not sure what she's seeing, and then it clicks in her head, random patches of black and midnight blue forming into Nightwing, fucking _Nightwing_ , crouched on the railing of the fire escape and watching them. _Staring_ at them, and she wonders what he's seeing-- a guy with light hair and scars on his back, fucking her with his head bowed, and she's pretty sure that from his angle Nightwing can't see the guy's face-- he's seeing _Roy_ fucking her, isn't he. Not that Nightwing isn't perfectly well aware that this _isn't_ Roy-- but in his head, oh yeah. It's Arsenal.

And maybe in his head it's not _her_ on her back at all. Maybe he's imagining Roy fucking _him_ , holding Nightwing down on a ratty sofa and fucking him _hard_ , so hard. Grace lets her eyes slip half-closed, watching Nightwing through her eyelashes. God, yeah, she can see it-- Nightwing with his pretty mouth half-open, moaning continuously as Arsenal fucks his ass-- Roy bracing himself with one huge, muscular arm, stripping Nightwing's cock with the other hand, ruthless and single-minded in that way that he gets when he's fighting or fucking. Oh fuck yeah-- like that day when Jade had to pull them off each other, blood on their faces from beating the living _shit_ out of each other-- and she can see it, _fuck_ she can see it, ripping each other's uniforms off and fucking on the floor, blood still dripping from Arsenal's face onto Nightwing-- and oh _god_ , she's coming, throwing her head back and yelling, coming so _hard_ that her vision whites out for a second.

Nightwing is gone when she opens her eyes again. Grace grins and stretches luxuriously, petting an absent hand down the punk boy's sweaty back. He makes an unintelligible noise and continues to pant against her neck. _Oh_ yeah. This was just what she needed.

Grace smiles up at the ceiling and runs through her mental little black book. Hmmm.

Wonders what Wildcat is up to, these days.


End file.
